Sherlock Holmes, Antichrist
by elphabathedelirious32
Summary: Exactly what it says on the tin. His name wasn't Warlock, but it was close, and the blame for the Antichrist finding out what he was lay 100% with Aziraphale. Almost. Thus far, lightly implied A/C.


**A/N: Oh, I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry. But I was exploring the Good Omens/Sherlock crossovers. And then it was briefly implied that Sherlock was the Son of Satan. And then I said, "Yeah, Sherlock would be the son of Satan." And my friend Lydia said "Yeah, I could see it." And then we looked at each other through the Internet and she said "YES. Go write it." And things pretty much went downhill from there. **

**Disclaimer: I own none of these characters. I own only a very strange brain. Sherlock and any other characters from that 'verse belong to Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss, and the BBC. Aziraphale, Crowley, and the Apocalypse That Wasn't and all other associated characters and ideas belong to Neil Gaiman, Terry Pratchett, John Milton, and The Bible. So, er…please no one sue me. Especially the guys behind the Bible. **

Sherlock Holmes was not the son of the American ambassador, and his name wasn't Warlock, but it was close. And his father (sort of) was a politician. Most Holmes men were. So it was thought a fairly failsafe environment, for the Antichrist.

Only problem was that Sherlock rather took after his _father _father. So the one thing, the one single thing that Sherlock Holmes was NEVER going to do was this: what he was told.

Actually, that wasn't the only problem. Not by a long shot. There were a whole slew of problems that came with Sherlock Holmes being the Antichrist, not the least of which was the fact that Sherlock Holmes had less than no desire to be the Antichrist, and that Sherlock Holmes, being the Antichrist, tended to get what he wanted. So that was rather a paradox. And since Sherlock Holmes became a devout atheist before the age of eleven, the Apocalypse was hardly nigh. Since Sherlock Holmes did not believe in any powers other than the powers of deduction he could naturally explain, he didn't have any, at least not on display.

So, uh, _oops_.

…

Crowley and Aziraphale were, of course, completely delighted when the Antichrist, rather like that idiot Faustus ("He bloody thinks Hell's a fable? I'm bloody standing right in front of him, what AM I, chopped liver?" Crowley complained, repeatedly, after that adventure. "Humans! Go- oh, whatever.") refused to believe in the existence or possibility of the Apocalypse ("Although I am rather concerned about climate change and the hole in the ozone layer. If you're _really _an angel, which I doubt, why doesn't your lot do something about that? Yes, that's what I thought. Now get out of my bedroom, please, I'm doing an experiment."). He also made Death cry and Pollution seriously consider following his predecessor into retirement (which, actually, had the long-term effect of very nearly closing the hole in the ozone layer, but it would be years of course before anyone noticed, and by then Sherlock had deleted the whole affair). War went sort of very quiet after he talked to her, but he and Famine seemed to get on rather well. Not that he really believed that these were the Four Horsepersons of the Apocalypse, you understand, he just thought they were extremely one-dimensional obsessives who had wandered in with Crowley and Aziraphale ("Gay. Obviously. Get on with it, would you two?").

It wasn't until he was twenty-two that Sherlock was made aware of his true parentage. And it wasn't Crowley's fault either. No, it seriously wasn't, this time. In fact, it was totally, completely, one-hundred-percent Aziraphale's fault that the Antichrist found out what he was.

….

Sherlock Holmes, recently possessed of a double-first from Cambridge and a budding but not yet sprouted cocaine addiction (which, yeah, okay, was Crowley's fault, but only the part that wasn't already God's fault for inventing the coca plant and making the world so bloody hard on synesthetic geniuses), was wandering one summer afternoon around Soho, _bored_ and looking for something to occupy himself, something non-drug-related because he was staying with Mycroft and Mummy for the weekend and didn't want to deal with what would happen if he got caught.

Even though he really wasn't looking for anything drug-related, he really wasn't, Sherlock couldn't help noticing the dark-haired young man in sunglasses and a leather jacket who darted, incongruously, out of a bookseller's and into a Bentley, rather improbably parked in a space that Sherlock was fairly certain shouldn't exist. His first thought was _drug dealer _and his second thought, so hot on the heels of the first as to be almost indistinguishable was _nowaitstopofffamiliar. _His third thought, which was one of his favorites, was _Why? Why off, why familiar? _He didn't have a car, and he was new to London and didn't have it memorized yet, so he couldn't follow the Bentley (though he was one of the few people, actually probably he was the only person, on Earth who actually could have followed it for more than a few blocks, if he'd had a car), but he could go into the bookseller's and investigate.

So actually, it was at least ten percent Crowley's fault. Aziraphale would (and frequently did) say it was half and half, but Crowley protested that just because the boy went into the shop didn't mean anything, and that Aziraphale could have, being a full-on supernatural being, deflected him or kicked him out or even just sort of shifted his perceptions around a little, to which Aziraphale protested that he wasn't exactly a _normal _human, was he? And Crowley would respond with, well, it wasn't exactly necessary to tell him everything right off, was it?

And, given what had happened, there was not a whole lot Aziraphale could say to that.

What happened was this:

The door to the bookshop creaked open slowly, and the dark head of a young man emerged cautiously from the daylight outdoors and into the dusty twilight of Aziraphale's haven.

For a moment Aziraphale thought it was Crowley, but the hair was too curly and the form too tall. The suit of course was what did it; very flash.

"Hello?" called the young man, in a voice a lot deeper than the face and form suggested.

"Good afternoon, dear," said Aziraphale, coming out from behind a stack of books.

_Off, again. Opposite kind of off, but same species, like belladonna and petunia._1_ Also, clearly a couple. _

"Hello," said Sherlock, again.

_I will withstand the pressure,_ Aziraphale thought, nervously looking into the pale eyes of the Antichrist. _He must never know, and no torture, no interrogation, will bend my purpose_.

"What's your name?" Sherlock Holmes, Antichrist, asked. He really wanted to know. He really wanted to know _everything_.

"It's, uh, it's, Aziraphale," the angel confessed. "And I'm an angel."

And things pretty much went downhill from there.

1 Of course, he knew, not exactly the same species, but at least the same family.*

*the Solanoiceae family. The species of belladonna, also known as deadly nightshade, is _Belladonna _and the species of petunia, also known as petunia, is _Petunia. _Tobacco is also a member of this family, which is why Sherlock thought of it. Interestingly, a very respected source** states that "these species are often rich in alkaloids whose toxicity to humans and animals ranges from mildly irritating to fatal," which, except for the bit about alkaloids, is a decent description of Crowley and Aziraphale. It also states that the flowers are usually actinomorphic*** and bisexual****.

** Wikipedia.

***Star-shaped.

****No comment.


End file.
